


Handprints and Good Grips

by MachaSWicket



Series: Flawless [2]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Allusions to smut, F/M, Flawless, One-Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 16:37:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2395346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY:  <i>So, yeah. It turns out that beard burn is an actual thing.</i>  Felicity navigates the change in her relationship with Oliver with her typical wordy aplomb. Written with <i><a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2291903">I Woke Up Like This</a></i> in mind, but each story can be read independently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Handprints and Good Grips

**Author's Note:**

> THANKS: To katelinnea and youguysimserious for betaing and feedback, and to youguysimserious for the title suggestion. 
> 
> DISCLAIMER: This whole universe belongs to DC and Arrow. Title from Beyonce's Partition. ;)

So, yeah. It turns out that beard burn is an actual thing.

Felicity is both gratified and embarrassed to have learned this from good, old fashioned, scientific-method-y trial and error. In the sense that Oliver had his mouth all over her body for most of the weekend. And in addition to the pleasant sort of soreness in some of her muscles and a couple faint fingermarks on her hips, she _also_ has irritated, reddened patches of skin in some interesting places.

Most of which are covered by her dress -- a really well-fitting indigo number that makes her feel confident and cute -- because obviously she wasn’t wearing anything when they-- 

God, she’s in _public_. Waiting in line for coffee with normal people who _aren’t_ currently fantasizing about all the really great sex they had this weekend. (Well, she _assumes_ they’re not, but if they are, you know, good for them.) And also, it’s not technically _fantasizing_ if it’s something that actually happened. It’s more… remembering in glorious, technicolor detail. The important part is: she really needs to stop blushing.

Which would be much easier to do if she could make herself _stop_ remembering everything. Like the feel of Oliver’s hands on her skin, or the look on his face when he--

“What can I get you?” asks the barista, a broad smile pasted in place.

Felicity jumps a little, then blushes some more. Because of course she does. “Hi,” she manages. “Uh, your largest latte, please.” 

She needs the caffeine. Desperately. Not that they hadn’t slept; they had, and Oliver had been mostly untroubled by nightmares. But her brain is clearly stuck in a sex-addled loop of giddiness, and the last thing she needs is to walk into QC with a goofy, besotted grin in place and blow up what little remains of her professional reputation by confirming that she’s schtupping her boss.

Not that she thinks they’re _just_ schtupping. Even if they hadn’t quite gotten around to defining whatever… _this_ is going to be, he’d spent the entire weekend in her bed. Well, the _majority_ of the weekend in her bed, and the rest doing weirdly low-key things with her like walking to the little diner two blocks over for a very (very) late brunch, or sprawling on her couch flipping stations on the TV.

It was… surprisingly easy. Surprisingly good. The non-sex parts. The sex parts were _mind-blowingly_ good, which was not at all surprising to her. Because Oliver? Is basically walking sex. And the things he can do with that body--

“Your latte, miss.”

Felicity presses her fingers to her forehead for a calming moment, then looks up with a smile. “Thanks.” She takes a sip, hissing a little as the liquid burns her tongue, then turns and heads for QC, which is a half-block away.

Oliver probably won’t be in yet. He’d agreed with her suggestion to go home late last night. Reluctantly agreed, and only after deploying his sad eyes and _really_ talented mouth to stump for staying.

But she doesn’t want this to be Diggle just picking him up at some girl’s apartment. She doesn’t want Diggle to find out like that.

Plus, she’d needed some time to lie in bed and giggle, and hide her face in her pillows (that still smelled like him), and try to convince herself that she didn’t have some graphic fever dream; that she’d had Oliver Queen. 

Repeatedly.

Felicity bites her lip, trying to rein in the idiotic grin on her face as she enters the lobby of the Queen Consolidated building. Something about the familiar space grounds her, lets her jittery nerves settle into just, you know, her regular nerves. 

She reaches her desk and relaxes even more when she confirms that Oliver isn’t in yet. She wants to see him, but she knows she’s going to be… well, weird. And probably rambly. Because the last time she saw him, he’d kissed her at her front door, one hand on her shoulder, one hand on her ass, and then given her that stupidly sexy grin before walking away. So in any other circumstance, she’d march straight up to him and drag his face down to hers in greeting.

Except she can’t, because -- professionalism.

Which makes all the sense in the world. But she knows her feelings will be… not hurt, exactly (it was her idea, after all). She knows she’s going to feel insecure, like their whole weekend was a way-higher-stakes version of that time she’d slept with her study group partner sophomore year at MIT and had then been stunned and ashamed when he’d walked into class the next day and just said, “‘Sup,” like he always did. Like nothing happened. 

Not that Oliver is some immature jerk with -- looking back -- _really_ terrible hair. He’s not. He’s one of the good ones, even if he doesn’t believe it. 

But some small part of her won’t let her forget that _she’d_ been the one to start things Friday. She’d kissed Oliver. And, yes, he’d responded ( _and how!_ ), but… he wasn’t the one who’d moved them from friends to something more. If she hadn’t thrown caution to the wind, he probably wouldn’t have any time in the near future, and she’s sure he has some reasons centered on danger and targets on her back, but what if those weren’t his _only_ reasons for hesitating?

What if he spent last night glowering at the ceiling and regretting everything?

“Don’t be stupid,” she tells herself, hating the little flare of panic she feels. Because she and Oliver? This is high stakes. This is all in. And if she’s wrong, she’s going to lose everything. She takes another hit of her latte before diving into her email inbox in search of a distraction from such unhelpful thoughts. 

She’s flying through a reply, the familiar click of her keyboard soothing her nerves, when the elevator chimes. And then all the work she’d done to calm down, all the refocusing on other things, the churning through a hundred emails -- yup, all gone. She’s frozen and her stomach swoops in a really annoying way, and then--

Oliver and Dig step off the elevator, the same as they do every morning, only everything is different and she can’t look away from him. She can’t stop searching for some reaction, some reassurance.

He looks good -- because, _duh_. He’s wearing a medium grey suit over a crisp white dress shirt and a purple tie. Purple! Felicity bites her lip, trying to remember the last time she’s ever seen him wear a purple tie. 

But she loses her train of thought, because he’s smiling at her as he approaches, that soft smile that makes her breathing stutter and her heart race. And she gets it. She understands that he doesn’t regret it, and he’s actually… _here_ with her.

 _Literally_ , obviously, but also -- he’s not running away, or pushing her away, or giving her big sad regretful eyes.

Felicity lets her breath out in a whoosh, then winces, hoping neither of the men staring right at her noticed. They did, but she willfully ignores the inquisitive look Diggle is giving her.

“Good morning, Felicity,” Oliver says, sounding enviably calm, the big jerk. How is he not nervous? How is he not thinking about the little crescents her nails left on his back?

And, God, why is _she_ thinking about the crazy-hot feel of his muscles moving beneath her hands right now? She looks up at him as he stops at the corner of her desk, Dig halting a couple steps back. 

“Hi,” she says, her voice only a little on the breathy-and-affected-by-his-presence side, which she decides is a small victory. She can’t look away from him, but she thinks maybe he’s having the same problem. He gives her a little grin, and she tells herself to stay just _regular_ friendly, not I’ve-seen-you-naked-and-would-like-to-do-so-again-as-soon-as-possible friendly. “Good morning,” she adds, and she’s smiling right back at him, pretty much unable to control her own traitorous face.

And then Oliver does that thing where the corner of his mouth twitches in amusement, and one eyebrow gives just the tiniest of lifts as he watches her. He dips his chin and takes a step towards his office, then turns back. “Lunch?”

Felicity can feel the flush, but she can’t do a thing to stop it, and Oliver is grinning outright now. She taps her fingernails against her desk twice, then says, “Sure. I like eating. Eating is good.” She _just barely_ stops herself from clarifying that she is _not_ alluding to any sort of sexual activity and is just talking about food, because she has beard burn on her thighs and she knows she would be a ridiculous shade of red if she alluded to that, even accidentally. Except apparently _thinking_ about it is just as bad, because she never thought it was possible for her cheeks to actually burn the way they’re doing right now.

Huffing a laugh, Oliver turns on his heel and moves to his desk, and Felicity forces herself to stop _gazing_ at him. God. She swivels a bit in her chair and stares at the email on her screen, not able to actually read a thing because Diggle’s very large, very insistent presence is like five feet away from her and she can _feel_ his stare.

“So,” Diggle drawls, and when she looks up, his arms are crossed over his chest, one eyebrow lifted in what she feels is probably knowing judgment. “How was _your_ weekend?”

Yup, Felicity cringes. Definitely judgment. But she lifts her chin and makes every effort to sound completely casual. “Pretty good.” Totally fails at sounding casual. Felicity presses on anyway. “Yours?”

“Not bad.” Diggle stands there, studying her, and she can still feel the telltale warmth in her cheeks. “Oliver seems like he had a pretty good weekend, too.”

Felicity tilts her head inquisitively and presses her lips together. “Mmmm?” She is not touching that. Absolutely not going to address it. Let Diggle take his knowing looks and his judgey eyes and go harass Oliver directly.

Diggle shifts his weight, and she can tell he’s fighting a smile. “Do anything fun?”

 _Oliver_ , she thinks, and has to fiddle with her earring to keep herself from glancing his way. But, yes, she’s flushing again as she remembers the feel of his chest rumbling with laughter. Who knew sex with such an intense and stupidly hot man could also be so much _fun_?

Felicity shrugs, aiming for nonchalance and landing somewhere probably a lot closer to nervous twitch. “Brunch,” she says, nodding. “Watched some TV.” All true. All innocent. And, really, the sum total of the G-rated events from her weekend.

“Uh-huh,” Diggle says, edging closer.

Felicity feels that jangle of nerves again, wishes she wasn’t so obviously going to be the weak link here. Because if Oliver wanted Diggle to know, he would’ve told him on the ride over. Right? But Diggle wouldn’t be pushing her like this if he _knew_ knew, only if he suspected -- and damn her stupid, blushing face for giving away the game. 

So if Oliver didn’t tell Dig, but he’s also not running away, what does that mean? What if he wants to keep this a secret? What if he just wants a friends with benefits thing, or--

“Felicity?” Diggle prompts, his voice kind.

She takes her time, straightens her pen carefully, making sure it’s precisely perpendicular to her notepad. Finally, she takes a breath and looks up. “Yeah?”

“Your boy was staring out the window on our drive in, grinning like a fool,” Diggle tells her. “Neither one of you is subtle. At all.” He pauses, letting his words sink in. “I’m happy for you both.”

Felicity’s mouth drops open, and she stares at him. 

Diggle is smiling at her now, clearly amused by her reaction. “Were you expecting something else?”

“No,” she stammers, “no, I was just-- I mean-- Did he say something? Or-- No, never mind. I’m--”

“Felicity,” Diggle interrupts, leaning forward to cover her hand with his. “It’s okay. I asked him if he finally manned up. He couldn’t stop smiling when he said you two are together.”

She can feel the shock on her face. Which is good, being able to feel _something_ , because she can’t really feel her hands at the moment, and something in her chest is squeezing just _way_ too tightly. “Together?” she repeats. Squeaks, really, since her voice comes out about two octaves higher than it should. “Oliver said--?” She breaks off, shaking her head a little, and she nearly misses the confusion on Diggle’s face as he straightens up, glancing over at Oliver’s office for a moment.

But Felicity is already moving, pushing her chair back, stomping towards Oliver on heels that are really a bit too high for practicality, but that look awesome with this dress, which was justification enough for the pain she’ll be in by 5. Because she’s learned that feeling confident is easier when you look good, and she needs that right now.

She needs it a lot.

Oliver looks up at her approach, eyebrows furrowing as he catches the look on her face and the fact that Diggle is trailing behind her. 

Felicity marches right up to the side of his desk. “You told Diggle we’re together?” she demands. Accuses, really.

Oliver’s mouth opens and shuts, his eyes wide as he stares up at her. “What?”

“You,” she repeats, pointing at Oliver for emphasis, “told Dig,” she continues, jerking her thumb in his direction, “that we’re _together_.” 

Oliver blinks and pushes himself upright, lifting one hand towards her before dropping it back to his side. “I-- I did,” he agrees, looking very, very confused. “You’re... angry?”

“I’m not _angry_ ,” Felicity argues, even as her hands land on her hips. She can _hear_ the tone of her voice, and she definitely _sounds_ angry, but that’s not it. Not really.

She’s... _overwhelmed_ , and all morning she’s been worried and nervous and anxious and a thousand synonyms for that, because what if he runs away? It’s not like he doesn’t have kind of a track record of that sort of thing. So her concerns were not unfounded -- they were _completely_ founded. They were built on rock and concrete and... something is wrong with her metaphor, but she’s not crazy to be concerned about this. 

And meanwhile he’s cruising to work, all smiling and jovial and just... _telling people_?

“I… Felicity, I thought...” Oliver trails off, sounding more uncertain than she’s ever heard him, his body all stiffness and awkward angles.

“You didn’t tell _me_ we were together!” Felicity points out. Loudly.

Oliver’s posture relaxes, just a little, and then he reaches for her. His palms smooth down her arms, and he urges her hands away from her hips so he can tangle their fingers together. “Felicity,” he says, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I should have explained what I was thinking before--”

“Really you should _ask_ me,” Felicity interrupts, grumbling a little. “This isn’t a unilateral decision,” she points out, warming to the topic. “I mean, if it was, we’d have been doing this for years already,” Felicity hears Diggle snickering behind her and chooses to ignore it, “since _one_ of us has been pretty clear about things from the start, and that--”

“Felicity.” Oliver uses his grip on her hands to tug her closer, until she’s standing six inches from him, tilting her head back to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry I was unclear,” he tells her, and he’s using that soft smile on her again, and all of her not-anger starts to calm. Which -- nice, though it’s also kind of _irritating_ that he can disarm her so effectively. “I’m yours. In whatever way you’ll have me.”

Her breath catches. Like, actually catches in her chest, and she makes what she’s sure is a crazy hitching noise when she tries to exhale. Because... _this man_. “Oh,” she says.

And then she launches herself at him. Probably most guys would’ve stumbled back a few steps, but this is _Oliver_ , so he simply absorbs the impact, winds his arms around her waist, and kisses her.

It’s exactly what they weren’t going to do. It’s why she sent him home last night and walked into work alone this morning. It’s completely unprofessional for his hand to be edging down her lower back towards her ass in the middle of his office at 9:17 a.m. on a Monday morning.

And she doesn’t care.

She just holds onto his lapels and kisses him back and lets all of her nerves and anxiety settle. It’s just _so good_ , this thing with him. How can it be this good this quickly? He kisses her like he’s been doing it for years and knows exactly how to wind her up and make her forget where she is and want nothing other than kiss him back forever.

And then Diggle clears his throat. “Yeah, I think I’m gonna go,” he says.

Felicity breaks the kiss, drops back onto her heels. Oliver lets her push him a few inches away, her hands pressed flat against his chest. “Dig!” she says, half-turning toward their friend, even though she can’t quite make herself meet his gaze while she’s still breathing hard. “I’m sorry.” Also, she’s blushing again. Obviously.

But when she chances a glance at him, Dig is grinning back at them even if he is shaking his head. “Let’s just try to keep things PG when I’m around, okay?”

“Done,” Oliver agrees so quickly that Felicity is suspicious. Before she can speak, Oliver’s hand slides lower on her hip, moving just out of Diggle’s line of sight.

“Oliver,” she stage-whispers, and swats his fingers away.

“Oh, good lord,” Diggle says, rolling his eyes as he walks away. “Please keep in mind that the elevator doesn’t lock and all the walls in here are glass. I’ll be back later.”

Felicity watches him leave, her cheeks flushed again at Diggle’s implication. Though, honestly, she could figure out how to override the elevator’s call function, which would effectively--

“Hey,” Oliver says, his voice low and full of affection.

Felicity turns back to him, her hands landing on his biceps as she tilts her face up to his. He’s just obscenely good looking. “Yeah?”

His eyes drop away from hers for a moment, and he takes a breath before meeting her gaze again. “We’re together, right?” he asks, and if she didn’t know better, she’d think he was actually a little nervous. His thumbs are pressing into her hipbones, and his smile is just the slightest bit uncertain.

“Yes,” she says, with a decisive nod. “You’re mine. No takebacks.”

And then he’s grinning down at her. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good,” she says, and leans up to kiss him, only then she remembers something and stops.

Oliver groans a little in protest. A sound she’s already learned to love, even only 50 or so hours into this whole being together thing. Because the idea that this man wants her so badly that she can leave him frustrated and grumpy just by not kissing him? Ridiculously hot. 

Felicity tightens her grip on his biceps. “Dig said he asked you if you finally manned up,” she declares, looking at him expectantly.

Oliver is clearly puzzled, but he nods. “Yes, he definitely asked that.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “And what did you say?”

The hand creeping up her ribcage stills, and he gives her a very wary look. “Why?”

“I just want it on the record that if _I_ hadn’t kissed your stubborn mouth, _you_ would still be all grumpy and sexually frustrated this morning,” she explains, smirking up at him.

He’s smiling back down at her, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “My stubborn mouth?”

“Oh, yes,” she says, nodding to emphasize her point. “Stubborn.” She leans up and kisses the corner of his mouth. “Obstinate.” He laughs, and she nips his lower lip. “Uncompromising when set on a particular goal. Which I very much appreciate.” Her voice is low and throaty and suggestive, and all she can think about is the the beard burn on her thighs. And how she got it. She didn’t mean to escalate things, but he’s got her pressed flush against his hard body, and what’s a girl supposed to do with that other than escalate?

“Are these good qualities?” he asks, breathing the question into her jaw before he presses soft, wet kisses wherever he can reach along her neck, his scruff scraping along her sensitive skin.

“Your mouth has a lot of excellent qualities,” she manages. She remembers his tongue on her navel, his lips on her shoulder, and she’s quickly losing her ability to verbalize. Then she feels his mouth just above her collarbone, and she shivers against him.

“Felicity,” he says, his hot breath ghosting along the v-neck of her dress. “Is it lunchtime yet?”

She grins, pushing him back a half step until he looks down at her. “It’s like 9:30.”

He looks so disappointed that she leans her forehead into his shoulder and starts to laugh. “Damn,” he mutters, his hands still rubbing patterns along her spine. “Coffee break?”

Felicity straightens up and gives him what she hopes is a seductive look. “A coffee break sounds perfect,” she agrees, stepping back and grabbing one of his hands to pull him out of his office and toward the elevators.

His eyebrows arch upwards in surprise, but he follows willingly. Eagerly, even.

“So talk to me about car options,” she says, still sounding a little breathless, because he’s crowding her with that crazy body of his, and then he drops her hand and pulls her back against him. It makes walking difficult, but oh-so-delightful.

“Car options?” he murmurs, nuzzling her neck as they drunkenly make their way past her desk and swing left. 

“Mmm,” she says. Moans. Whatever. “Busy week. Lots of business dinners.”

His fingers tighten on her waist, then one palm slides around to her belly, holding her against him. “Fuck business dinners.”

She huffs a laugh. “You can’t cancel. But what about cars?” She leans her head back against his chest, reaching back to press her palms against the sides of his thighs. “Other than the Bentley.”

“You want me to buy you a car?” he asks, then stops them ten feet from the elevator to suck a hickey into the nape of her neck. Which is totally not going to be covered by her ponytail.

“Oliver!”

“Not sorry,” he says, and she can feel his grin against her, even as he presses soft, apologetic kisses into her skin.

“Cars,” she manages, despite the heat flaring low in her belly. “Car options. For us to be driven in. Not to buy.”

“Felicity,” he whispers, pulling her back firmly against him so she can feel just how affected he is. “Why are you talking about cars?”

“Need a limo,” she says, her fingers curling to the backs of his thighs to hold him tight against her even as his hands drop to the hem of her dress and sneak up underneath. His fingers are hot against her skin. “Privacy,” she explains. “Something with a partition.”

His hands convulse against her, and he groans, right into her ear like he did when he had her right there in the kitchen when they’d attempted to wash dishes sometime Sunday afternoon. Felicity takes advantage of his momentary incoherence and steps out of his embrace, grabbing his hand to tug him along with her.

When they reach the elevator banks, Felicity presses the call button and then turns to face him, her back against the wall as she looks at up him, biting her lip because she’s seen how strongly he reacts to _that_. It's all the invitation Oliver needs to invade her personal space, tilt her face up, and pick up right where they’d left off. 

Seriously, the way he makes her feel should be illegal.

Or, actually, not illegal -- encouraged. It should be recognized by Congress as some sort of optimal state of being.

Felicity is so consumed by the feel of him under her palms, by the desperate way he’s kissing her, that she almost misses the elevator chime. But she pushes him back as the doors slide open, working to bring her breathing back under control. He’s looking a little dazed, too, which is just _crazy_ , but also awesome. 

Breathing hard, she urges him around in a half-circle and then backs him into the elevator. “Coffee break, remember?”

He nods, smirking, and reaches for her. 

But Felicity scoots back, remaining just out of his reach. “Oh, no, I’ve got a bunch of emails to respond to,” Felicity says with a grin. “Could you just grab me a latte?”

Oliver’s (super talented) mouth falls open. “Felicity--?”

“I’ll thank you properly later,” she promises, tilting her head to the side. 

He clenches his jaw. “Felicity,” he says, a warning this time.

She props one hand on her hip, lets her posture soften into something a little suggestive. “Grab me a muffin,” she says, dropping her voice a little as the doors begin to close, “and you’re gonna need Diggle to bring a limo for the ride home.”

The flare of understanding and arousal in his eyes, plus his groan just as the doors slide shut? Totally hot.

And gratifying.

Felicity presses a hand to her chest and wills herself to calm down. No matter how fun _that_ was, they really shouldn’t get up to anything at the office. It’s unprofessional.

Even if the thought of having Oliver in his office is a massive turn on. Even if she’s imagined that a thousand times since he made her his EA. 

“Totally unprofessional,” Felicity says aloud, as she makes her way to her desk on -- yeah, okay, fine -- unsteady legs. 

Hanky panky should be strictly off-limits at work. It’s the adult, professional, responsible thing to do. She nods, logging into her computer, trying really, really hard to forget the feel of his hands on her, the look of those lust-filled blue eyes, the sensation of his super-fancy suit under her fingers.

So, yeah, they’re totally going to need to revisit their office PDA policies.

END


End file.
